


33: This Is It

by light_source



Series: High Heat [33]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then other things would happen, things that felt so good that neither of them wanted to ask any questions, they just wanted time to slow a little before they had to go back to being regular boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	33: This Is It

They fall asleep like that, Brandon’s arm circling Tim’s chest, both of them wedged warm and sweaty in the lap of the couch, breathing in unison. The basement’s half-dark and silent; the only windows are the narrow high ones in the corner, and the PlayStation’s screen is empty blue. So when they’re jolted awake by Tim’s cell blasting the _what what what what what what_ part of ‘Superthug’, they both sit bolt upright like they’ve been caught sleeping in class, all ready to say ‘what was the question?’ before they remember where they are.

Tim’s cheek is damp from being pressed up against Brandon’s open mouth and his hair is all over the place. As he brings the cell, warm from his pocket, up against his ear, he catapults himself off the couch as though by reflex, his left foot crunching on the Fritos that are still scattered across the rug.

\- Where are you, honey, it’s late, says his mom’s voice on the phone.

Tim’s already out of there, taking the basement stairs two at a time when he snaps the cell shut. He doesn’t look back. As he pulls the front door closed behind him, his mind’s hammering out the rest of the song:

_keep it on the hush hush, don’t talk too much  
thugged out entertainment, you know we touch  
is you knowin what you facin?_

//

The amazing thing, Tim knows now, was that things hadn’t really changed between them - just gotten more intense. It was like he and Brandon’d grown up together knowing a secret language that made regular words unnecessary. Like pickup hoops, this being together, where nobody needed to talk about rules. No refs or whistles, just shirts and skins and the rhythm of layup and rebound and man-on-man press till it’s too dark to play and the streetlights come on.

Like always. They’d fire up the PlayStation and play a quarter or two of intense football, silently, because competition was their main thing ever, Tim in baseball and Brandon in golf, no talking just _doing._ Rage would gradually churn up in Tim’s chest, pressing against his ribs, and then he’d let it out bit by satisfying bit with brutal tackles by the secondary and semi-illegal holds the back judge couldn’t see.

Eventually one of them’d pull something - a pickoff or a uncalled facemask or a squib kick that totally fucked up the other team’s return - and then the one who’d done it would make it worse by taunting and crowing and hissing _pussy_ under his breath.

Pretty soon they’d be shoving and pushing and full-on grappling with the wrestling moves they’d learned in P.E., till a chicken-wing pinback or a collar-tie hold would melt into something else entirely, a bite and a marking suck on the back of the neck or a slanted, open-mouthed kiss.

And then other things would happen, things that felt so good that neither of them wanted to ask any questions, they just wanted time to slow a little before they had to go back to being regular boys.

 _That time_.  Even though he's twenty-four now and he hasn't seen Brandon in years, Tim still gets hot just remembering the way Brandon’s muscles felt through his shirt, under Tim’s hands - fuck, the way his eyes’d close and his skin would get hot and he'd shake when Tim touched him. For the longest time they hadn't even gone all that far - just French kissing and dry-humping and messy but hot hand-jobs through their clothes - but somehow it didn’t matter, because it was all still so not what they'd grown up expecting.

And as long as it they kept most of their clothes on, it was only fooling around.

Finding time got harder and harder. Junior year, Tim’d finally gotten his growth spurt and made the varsity baseball team, and Brandon was busy tearing up the regionals and invitationals.  They both had GPAs to worry about, and neither of them had more than a couple hours a week to do anything outside of schoolwork and practice and games. Sometimes they’d go a week or two only seeing each other in the one class they had together.

Those gaps, though, were reassuring; it meant that what they were doing wasn't a big deal.  When he gave himself time to think about it, which wasn't often, Tim sometimes wondered when one of them would wake up and say _what the fuck is this_ and put a stop to it. 

//

Senior year. It's late March, sixth-period Language Arts, and Mrs. Fletcher, her eyes puffy and resigned above her half-glasses, is handing back their papers on _The Grapes of Wrath_.

His long legs folded coltwise under the one-armed school desk, Brandon turns to Tim as he tucks his notebook into his backpack and zips it shut.

\- You starting today? asks Brandon.

Tim nods. - Interlake, he says. - they're 9 and 1.

\- After, Brandon says offhandedly, - there’s no calculus homework this week because of the AP stuff, so I got some time?

Tim looks at him for a moment.

Then Mrs. Fletcher hands him his graded paper, twisting her mouth and shaking her head. It’s covered with red scrawls and Tim doesn’t check out the grade on the back page because he doesn’t want to know.  Mrs. Fletcher’s got that mom radar, and he’d watched the movie instead of reading the book.

On his way to the gym, Tim calls home and leaves a message on the kitchen phone saying he’s going out with the guys after the game. Since his mom moved out and Sean started working evenings, there’s no dinnertime anymore - everyone just eats when they come home, all different times. But his dad’ll be pissed because later on he’ll expect Tim to be there to review tape.

Tim can’t think about that now.

//

It’s the first rainless day in two weeks, the blue sky streaky with low-riding clouds that are making and unmaking right over their heads.

For the first six and two-thirds innings against Liberty’s rival Interlake, Tim’s got a perfect game going, and the possibility electrifies the crowd.

The bleachers are overflowing today for the first time in awhile - word about Lincecum’s gotten out, and even the guy from the Seattle _Times_ is here. Coach Walker’s arms are folded army-tight over his chest, his gum wad poking out the bottom of his cheek, still as a bird, unblinking. Ken Knutson’s next to him, the UW head coach who usually makes it here for an hour or so when Tim starts, stealing time away from his own program to watch Tim pitch.

\- Look, shouts somebody in the crowd over the crackle and thump of the loudspeakers, - it’s Hideo Nomo!

Tim tunes out the laughter. He's heard it before.

In the seventh, though, when Tim’s circling the mound after fanning a batter, his eyes snag on two guys in windbreakers he hasn’t seen before, guys with radar guns and clipboards sitting in folding chairs back of the first-base side of the plate.

His hands begin to sweat. Nothing helps - not the rosin bag, not wiping them on his jersey, not a handwash of infield dirt.

His control’s shot, and he walks the next two batters.

But then his rhythm comes back just from the doing of it, and as his pulse settles, the ball’s there for him again. He’s nearly struck out the next batter when the strikeout pitch breaks crazy wild. The catcher manages to spear it and peg it to third, but the throw’s too high and the runner goes for home.

_Shit._

In left field, Joe Tomich rescues the play - he scoops up the ball, crow-hops, and throws behind the runner at first, picking him off for the third out.

Tim gets the win.  Sixteen strikeouts.  A no-hitter.  He’ll take it.

//

It’s already dark, and Tim’s hair’s still wet from his postgame shower when Brandon opens the Williamses’ front door. Then the two of them are just standing there, looking at each other. Tim wonders what’s up - usually ringing the doorbell's just a formality, and then he lets himself in and finds Brandon in the basement.

Something about the way they’re face-to-face at the front door tonight makes him feel kind of dirty and defiant, as though he’s about to present himself to some stupid girl’s parents for inspection.

Brandon grins a little, in that lopsided way where his dimples line up with his freckles and one eyebrow droops, and that puts Tim at ease. But at the bottom of the stairs to the lower level, Tim feels Brandon’s hand on the inside of his shoulder, turning him gently, and then the other hand on his other shoulder, till their eyes meet.  And then he feels Brandon’s arms pulling him in, right here in the hallway next to the stack of throw pillows and the shelf where the Scrabble board and the checkers are.

Tim sure as hell hopes Mrs. Williams is on shift at the clinic tonight. He has no idea how they’re gonna explain this if she suddenly appears at the top of the stairs.

\- I was there, Timmy, Brandon hisses, almost like he’s angry. - _I was there._

His soft lips are pushing slantwise against Tim’s mouth, his tongue only asking, till Tim’s mouth slackens and his head falls back into Brandon’s hand and he lets him in, with that shock of astonishment at how this feels, like the first time.

And it kind of is a first time - tonight there’s been no Madden foreplay that lets them pretend that what they’re doing doesn’t count.

\- What? Tim asks when he finally comes up for air, cracking one eye open.

\- Sixteen, Brandon breathes into Tim’s mouth. - Strikeouts.

When Brandon’s hands come forward, his palms curving around Tim’s jaw so that he can kiss him harder, Tim notices through half-closed eyes that there’s a line between Brandon’s eyebrows, a mark of something that hasn’t been there before.

\- Hungry? asks Brandon. - You want something?

It’s past dinnertime and Tim hasn’t had anything but Gatorade since lunch, but the question’s still ridiculous. Brandon smells like laundry and Dial soap and new sweat - his neck’s glistening - and he’s run his hand slowly and deliberately down the front of Tim’s body to palm his hard-on through his jeans.  Brandon's hands are  sensitive and supple, and he knows full well that even the suggestion of his touch makes Tim hot. Right now Tim can’t imagine using his mouth for anything but kissing Brandon back, as they stumble sideways and backwards till the edge of the couch seat jackknifes Tim’s knees.

Brandon knows Tim can’t do anything but let Brandon lay him back there against the cushions, his heart hammering in his belly and his crotch and behind his eyes.

 _Oh yeah._ The whole letting thing, Brandon taking charge, is what makes Tim crazy.  What makes him want.

Brandon pushes himself forward between Tim’s legs, stretching up until they’re eye to eye. He presses his tongue between Tim’s lips, insistent this time, teasing against the roof of Tim’s mouth, slowly so that eventually Tim’s moaning with every thrust, taking Brandon’s tongue deeper and deeper as though he'd like to drink him down.

Brandon’s still stroking Tim’s dick through his jeans, but now, without warning, he crosses that line they haven’t crossed before. He’s unzipped the fly of Tim’s jeans and he’s using both hands to slide them down Tim’s narrow hips, briefs and all, till Tim’s just laid out there waiting, his cock springing hard against the muscles of his bare stomach.

Breaking the kiss but not the gaze, Brandon settles back on his heels, his tongue tightening the center of his lip. He brings his hands to his waist, crosses them, and hauls his Green Day t-shirt off over his head, loosing a lock of hair that falls forward into his eyes. Brandon’s shoulders are even more amazing without his shirt on, muscled and cut, Tim realizes. And then with a shock he sees it - Brandon’s got a new tattoo, a green-blue spiral that stretches over his shoulder down onto his left deltoid.

Tim can’t believe he’s never seen this before. Brandon was a swimmer before he was a golfer, and Tim’s mind starts to drift to how this looks in the pool, water sluicing off Brandon’s hairless chest and his hard belly, his Speedo making him look even hotter than being totally naked would. And on Brandon's shoulder, this swirl like a handprint that makes him look older, experienced, like someone who knows where he’s going.

Brandon must’ve seen Tim’s eyes widen, because he smiles and slides his hands up Tim’s bare thighs and belly and pushes his shirt up, his thumbs grazing Tim’s nipples, making Tim flinch even as he’s lifting his arms to help Brandon drag it over his head and off.  Brandon wads up Tim's t-shirt and shoots the ball of fabric over the back of the couch into the dark.

Then again - but so much slower this time, like he's making a point - he runs his hands up Tim’s naked torso, from his hips to his armpits, till his thumbs come to rest on Tim’s nipples again and linger there this time, stroking softly at first, and then harder as they stiffen under his touch and Tim's whole skin shivers - it's too intense.  Brandon's hard abs are just touching his cock, rubbing a little here and there, sliding across the sensitive skin like a promise, and Tim wants more.

The thing that kills him about Brandon is how he knows how to make Tim wait.

Now he's lowered his head and he's kissing the inside of Tim's thighs, licking and biting, getting closer and closer. When Brandon's hand finally, _finally_ , slides up Tim’s thighs, twining around Tim’s balls and circling the base of his cock, and he slips the head into his wet mouth and starts swirling his tongue around it, Tim can only manage a few minutes before his control is shot - for the second time today.

When he comes, he's so beyond himself that he doesn't even realize he's moaning Brandon's name.

The flush of pleasure from his orgasm feels like a dream as he fades back into consciousness, becomes aware of the way his belly's still heaving and sticky with come. He pulls Brandon back up for a hot, messy  _oh fuck, Brandon_ kiss. And then he takes Brandon's cock in his own hand, wet with sweat and desire, knowing that what's happening now is gonna change everything.

Brandon’s face, contorted with pleasure, would be enough, but when Brandon starts moaning _fuck yeah_ with every stroke of Tim’s tongue on his dick, and his hands knot in Tim’s hair, twisting, all the other stuff, baseball and school and girls and what he’s supposed to do, just fades out of Tim's head, because _this is it._


End file.
